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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26204224">Social Engagement for Misanthropes</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/stubbornbones/pseuds/stubbornbones'>stubbornbones</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Midnight Star [3]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Laid to Rest (2009)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>marena gets a sword because she deserves it, so do rich people, work parties always suck</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-08-31</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-08-31</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 07:48:18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,674</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26204224</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/stubbornbones/pseuds/stubbornbones</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Sorry I made you come to my shitty work party, baby, here's a sword and also the asshole from said party for you to murder.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Jesse Cromeans/OFC</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Midnight Star [3]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1814053</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Social Engagement for Misanthropes</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Jesse Cromeans cleaned up nice, and he damn well knew it. It was one of the first skills he’d cultivated after leaving his shithole hometown. One of the best ways to get money, he’d found, was to look like you already had it. The looks he got from women (and some men) were a welcome (some would say unnecessary) boost to his ego, and a sharp suit could always be counted on to draw the piggies out of their pens. The first few times he’d worn designer had felt strange, like a kid playing make-believe, though after a while it became as natural as breathing.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Now, as he stood in front of the mirror in his walk-in closet and fiddled with a tie he hadn’t touched in over three years, he felt a bit like that broke, backwater kid again.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He didn’t particularly want to attend this event, but it was, unfortunately, somewhat necessary. Spann had called it “proof of life” when she handed him the invitation, an actual, physical piece of paper that had been calligraphed and embossed within an inch of its life. It contained phrases like “humble gathering” and “the pleasure of your company” and had, apparently, been mailed with an honest-to-god wax seal.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Pretentious prick.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jesse had been to his fair share of “humble gatherings”; you couldn’t conduct </span>
  <em>
    <span>real</span>
  </em>
  <span> business without them. They were mind-crushingly boring affairs, a slow-moving social dance of caviar, expensive booze, and pathetic attempts at wit. If nothing else, the people-watching was usually interesting. For all their “good breeding”, wealthy families could be far more dysfunctional than the most slovenly of small town homes. Upper class socialites didn’t blink at multi-million dollar checks, but flash a bit of ink and they’d fall over themselves to choke on his cock while their husbands talked golf in the next room. He’d even picked up a piggy or two at a few events, though you had to be extra careful with that (chain of association and all).</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But he hadn’t shown his face in public since it had been ripped off and reattached, and some of his business contacts were getting suspicious. Spann’s iron-clad assurances were no longer enough to quell the rumors that Jesse Cromeans had died, or been deposed, and that someone else was running the company under his name. And that just would not do. He’d RSVP’d immediately, memories of Preston’s failed takeover flushing his system with old rage.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>At least he’d be guaranteed some interesting company tonight</span>
  </em>
  <span>, he thought, smirking at the garment bag draped over the stool next to him as he tapped out a quick text.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>💀🖕</span>
  <b>: COME UPSTAIRS, I HAVE A SURPRISE FOR YOU</b>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>
    <em>Macarena</em>
  </b>
  <b>: IF IT’S YOUR DICK I DON’T WANT IT</b>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jesse chuckled and went back to his tie, certain that either Marena’s curiosity or the urge to insult him to his face would bring her up shortly. He knew bow ties were traditional for black tie events, but wearing a fucking </span>
  <em>
    <span>bow</span>
  </em>
  <span> around his neck was a concession he’d never been able to force himself to make. Besides, he had a reputation for being… </span>
  <em>
    <span>unconventional</span>
  </em>
  <span>, and reputation was </span>
  <em>
    <span>everything</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Satisfied with the crisp Windsor knot, he shrugged on his black waistcoat, secretly pleased with the way it showed off the breadth of his chest.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You look like a goth pirate,” came Marena’s voice from the doorway. “What the fuck.” As usual, he hadn’t heard her approach. She was the only person he knew who could sneak up on him, which was fun. Made things exciting.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Haven’t you ever heard of ‘black tie’ before?</span>
  </em>
  <span>” Jesse signed with a grin.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Call me surprised then. Are we done?” In lieu of a verbal response, Jesse tossed the garment bag at her. Marena unzipped it enough to peek inside, then immediately re-zipped it.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“No.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Yes.</span>
  </em>
  <span>”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Nyet.</span>
  </em>
  <span>”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Can’t go to a gala wearing that</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” Jesse replied, looking pointedly at her worn t-shirt and jeans. Marena threw the garment bag back and crossed her arms.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“How sad. Guess I won’t go.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Sure you will. I can think of a few things to make it fun.</span>
  </em>
  <span>”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“So can I. Like not going.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Not an option.</span>
  </em>
  <span>” Jesse was struggling to smother his laughter. The stubborn furrow of Marena’s brow was too cute to keep a straight face around.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Why are </span>
  <em>
    <span>you</span>
  </em>
  <span> going?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Business</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“And that has what to do with me?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>You’re my plus one, little wench.</span>
  </em>
  <span>” Marena visibly cringed.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“If we’re being pirates, I want a fucking sword. And I </span>
  <em>
    <span>don’t</span>
  </em>
  <span> mean your dick,” she snapped, cutting him off before he could sign a single word. Jesse’s shoulders shook with a full-body laugh, composure completely shot. He cupped Marena’s face in both hands and kissed her forehead, which he knew she hated, before pressing the garment bag into her hands once more.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Try to look a little less like a corpse</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” he advised, stepping around her to grab his dinner jacket. A litany of Russian curses followed him.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>***</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Marena’s concession to not resembling a corpse was a violently red lipstick that made it look like she’d been eating human hearts for every meal, which Jesse immediately wanted to smear across her face. The dress was black, of course, with a high collar and long sleeves. It would have covered her neck to toe had she not hiked one side of the skirt nearly up to her hip while she slipped a set of throwing knives into the holster around her slender thigh.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>She made a compelling argument for ditching</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Jesse thought, feeling a familiar tightening in his slacks. He couldn’t resist smoothing a hand along her exposed leg, fingers coming to rest just shy of her underwear.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Once this dress comes off, it’s not going back on,” she warned.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Noted and appreciated. You still have to come to this party.</span>
  </em>
  <span>”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Fuck.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Later</span>
  </em>
  <span>.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Marena said nothing, just glared at him through her curtain of hair - which she had brushed just enough that the messiness looked intentional - and let her skirts fall back down to her ankles. Jesse quickly ushered her out of the room before he could do something ingenious like cancelling all of his commitments for the next month and spending the entire time in bed.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The ride in the Bentley was tense and silent. A sick pit of nerves was brewing in Jesse’s stomach, all too similar to the way his boyhood self felt on the way to school, and that was ten kinds of bullshit. He was a </span>
  <em>
    <span>grown man</span>
  </em>
  <span>. He was motherfucking </span>
  <em>
    <span>Chromeskull</span>
  </em>
  <span>. He should </span>
  <em>
    <span>not</span>
  </em>
  <span> be feeling like a little kid about to face a playground bully. But he was finding it very difficult to push the feeling away. His face looked a damn sight better than it did several years ago, but it would never go back to the way it was before, and he was about to walk into a room full of people who treated a minute blemish like a national scandal. He wanted his mask. He wanted to say </span>
  <em>
    <span>fuck it</span>
  </em>
  <span> and just keep driving until he hit someplace tropical. He wanted to kill something, to drown his insecurities in blood and adrenaline.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He half-wished he’d flown Asa out to rig the whole venue beforehand in case things went south.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Beside him, Marena was deathly still, one white-knuckled fist gripping the fabric of her skirt. She looked a million miles away, lost in whatever personal hell her own brain was conjuring for her. Jesse reached over and squeezed her hand, running his thumb over her knuckles. It was his version of a concession; a silent expression of gratitude. The fact that Marena didn’t push his hand away was a testament to how anxious she was.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I still want a sword,” she grumbled. Jesse smiled and chucked her under the chin, which she also hated, and felt the knot in his chest loosen a bit.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>***</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It wasn’t as bad as it could have been. People stared, of course, but they were too “polite” (which was money-speak for “two-faced”) to say anything to his face. There were far more eyes on Marena, which Jesse both loved and loathed. The women’s jealous eyes tracked her every move like sharks scenting new prey, which was admittedly hilarious to watch; but the barely-concealed desire on the men’s faces sent prickles of possessiveness down Jesse’s spine. He kept his hand glued to Marena’s lower back, low enough to skirt the line of what their current company would consider decent.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>If there was one thing the rich understood, it was possession.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Cromeans!” the host bellowed, arms spread like they were old friends. “Still alive and in the flesh, I see! Some of the lads were getting worried!” A few of the “lads” murmured noises of agreement while the host gave Jesse an overly enthusiastic handshake. Jesse could feel their gazes catching on the eyepatch and the new curl of his lip, and he almost wished one of them would say something, just to give him an excuse to lash out. But the host’s attention wandered over to Marena, whom he foolishly deemed to be a safer topic of discussion.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“And who might this lovely creature be?” he asked, ignoring the sinful glances his wife was casting Jesse’s way.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“No one of consequence,” Marena replied sweetly with a tight, close-lipped smile. The man tipped his head back and guffawed, trying not to wither under the combined weight of Jesse and Marena’s unimpressed stares. He forged ahead anyway.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You always did have a penchant for… </span>
  <em>
    <span>unusual</span>
  </em>
  <span> company, Cromeans, I’ll give you that. Tell you what,” he rubbed his hands together eagerly, “I’ve got a bottle of Lagavulin with your name on it in the gentlemen’s lounge. I’m sure Genevieve here can handle your lovely companion for a bit while we talk business.” He beamed benevolently at his wife, who looked as though she’d rather eat glass.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Of course, dear,” she said, pasting a megawatt smile on her botoxed face. “It’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>such</span>
  </em>
  <span> a treat to see a new face around here. I’m sure the other girls would </span>
  <em>
    <span>love</span>
  </em>
  <span> to meet you.” She swept away towards a group of tittering young women draped in diamonds and pearls, Marena following with the stiff spine of a person walking to their execution. Jesse felt much the same way as “the lads” filed into the oak-paneled gentlemen’s lounge.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Business” was code for the same inane bullshit being discussed in the ballroom, with the addition of whiskey, cigars, and complaints about wives and mistresses. These conversations were usually a goldmine for Jesse. As a mute, he was rarely expected to be an active participant, and the number of weaknesses people revealed when they assumed they were surrounded by allies was astounding. Tonight, though, he was twitchy and bored, distracted by thoughts of Marena stabbing one of those debutante brats through the eye with the stem of a champagne glass. As if on cue, his phone vibrated.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>
    <em>Macarena</em>
  </b>
  <b>: I’M GOING TO KILL EVERYONE IN THIS BUILDING</b>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>💀🖕: DON’T START WITHOUT ME</b>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>
    <em>Macarena</em>
  </b>
  <b>: IT’S CUTE THAT YOU THINK I WON’T TAKE YOU OUT FIRST</b>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>💀🖕: AWW YOU THINK I’M CUTE?</b>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>
    <em>Macarena</em>
  </b>
  <b>: I WILL RIP YOUR SPINE OUT AND BEAT YOU WITH IT</b>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>💀🖕: DON’T TEMPT ME WITH A GOOD TIME BABY ;)</b>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>
    <em>Macarena</em>
  </b>
  <b>: THIS FUCKER KEEPS TRYING TO GET ME TO DANCE</b>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>
    <em>Macarena: </em>
  </b>
  <b>CAN I KNEECAP HIM</b>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>
    <em>Macarena:</em>
  </b>
  <b> I’M GONNA KNEECAP HIM</b>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The little bastard’s kneecaps were spared when a staff member scuttled into the lounge to inform the host of some </span>
  <em>
    <span>dire</span>
  </em>
  <span> emergency, effectively breaking up the little gathering. Jesse strolled back into the ballroom and spotted Marena at a table near the exit, cornered by a little bitch with slicked-back hair and a greasy smile. The waves of irritation coming off of the girl were palpable and her smile obviously fake, and Jesse couldn’t decide if the guy was too stupid to notice, or was ignoring it because he had that effect on every woman he spoke to.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Come on, baby,” he goaded, and Jesse could have broken his neck just for that, “it’s just one dance. Didn’t your mother ever teach you manners?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Marena’s smile froze on her face, and Jesse could practically hear the Kill Bill sirens going off in her head. The barb would’ve worked on any other woman in the room - horror of high society horrors, to be considered ill-mannered! - but for people of Marena and Jesse’s backgrounds, it hit much harder and </span>
  <em>
    <span>much</span>
  </em>
  <span> deeper.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“No,” she said, rising slowly and deliberately from her seat. “She didn’t.” She turned on her heel, leaving the idiot to gape at the failure of his clumsy manipulation tactics. Jesse grabbed her elbow and she passed and made a beeline for the exit. Not that he didn’t relish the prospect of a bloodbath, but initiating one right </span>
  <em>
    <span>now</span>
  </em>
  <span> would make future business dealings… complicated.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He memorized the fucker’s face on their way out, though.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>***</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Marena spent the next few days in a well-deserved sulk, resulting in the destruction of two punching bags and a serious case of blue balls for Jesse. He’d really been looking forward to ripping that dress off of her, damn it. He distracted himself with work and few more </span>
  <em>
    <span>personal</span>
  </em>
  <span> arrangements. At the end of the week, he tracked her down on the rooftop deck.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Say your piece and fuck off,” she growled as he stood silently next to her chaise lounge, hands behind his back. She sounded exhausted and looked as though she hadn’t slept in at least two days. Affecting an air of mock seriousness, Jesse moved in front of her and bowed, offering her conciliatory gift on open palms.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You did not.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The shashka’s scabbard was a deep midnight blue, with subtle patterns of tree branches embossed in the fine leather. The hilt was smooth, black horn. The blade gleamed in the afternoon light as Marena unsheathed it with a fluid </span>
  <em>
    <span>schnick</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You are the absolute worst fucking person in the world,” she said, the corners of her mouth twitching dangerously close to a smile. A glint of wicked delight sparkled in her eyes as she gave the sabre a few experimental twirls and slashes.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Only for you, baby</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” Jesse replied with a cheeky grin. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Want to test it out?</span>
  </em>
  <span>”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>***</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>All it took was a pair of handcuffs and a dark warehouse to really bring out the bitch in some people. The asshole from the party (Jesse really needed to come up with a term for male piggies if this was going to be a recurring thing) had been tied up for barely a day and he was already a snivelling mess. Jesse, on the other hand, was in a </span>
  <em>
    <span>great </span>
  </em>
  <span>mood. He had his mask, his camcorder, and his favorite knife, and judging by the way Marena was practically purring as she traced her fingers around the shashka’s hilt, he was </span>
  <em>
    <span>for sure</span>
  </em>
  <span> getting laid tonight. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The rich bitch didn’t recognize Jesse with his face covered, but his eyes went wide and he started screaming obscenities into his gag when Marena stepped under the light. She yanked the fabric out of his mouth.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You fucking cunt! You’ll fucking regret this! Do you know who I am? Do you-” All the blood drained from his face when Marena drew the sword and held it to his throat in a lightning-fast move. He swallowed hard, the tip digging in just below his Adam’s apple and drawing a bead of blood. </span>
  <em>
    <span>She really was a natural with that thing</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Jesse thought as he circled the tableau with his camera. It was hot as fuck.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Hi,” Marena said.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The man sweated in silence.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I wanted to go back to our conversation a few nights ago,” she continued. “About my mother.” She let the sword drop to her side and the man relaxed fractionally.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“See, she did not teach me manners, but she </span>
  <em>
    <span>did</span>
  </em>
  <span> teach me a lot of other things.” She pushed the gag back into place and patted him a couple times on his quivering, tear-soaked cheek. Then she reached into her pocket and pulled out a black butterfly knife.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Lesson one: bleeding.”</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Marena's name is "Macarena" in Jesse's phone because autocorrect kept changing it and he gave up</p></blockquote></div></div>
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